


What It Takes to Move On

by mulder_its_me



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parenthood, Single Parents, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulder_its_me/pseuds/mulder_its_me
Summary: Sherlock has been "dead" for twelve years. Since then, John has moved to a small town outside of London and now has an eight year old daughter, Mae. After finally defeating Moriarty, Sherlock decides it's time to come back home. It takes a while for the two men to get used to each other but they eventually make it work.This is also my first fic in like 3 years! It's a guilty pleasure of mine to read them and I thought it might be nice to practice writing again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired to write this after reading A Shipless Ocean for the second time. The first few chapters might be really similar to it but I promise I'm not copying it. It will be very different as the story goes on and I plan on this being quite a long story. If you haven't read that fic yet, you should, it's really great!

Twelve years. It had been exactly twelve years since Sherlock disappeared. Since he jumped from the building and vanished from John's life. Twelve years since Sherlock died. He didn't really but to the rest of the world he had. The only other person who knew was Sherlock's brother Mycroft. In those twelve years Sherlock put his entire being into disbanding Moriarty' web. He travelled through Europe and through the Middle East. He sacrificed so much just to get rid of Moriarty and to keep his loved ones safe. And now he was back. Moriarty had finally been defeated and Sherlock was making his return back into the world. Nobody knew yet but they would soon. 

Sherlock stood across the street from the local public school, watching as John picked up his daughter for the day. This was the second week Sherlock had been discretely following John, watching his movement, his patterns, trying to deduce how exactly to approach him. Mostly, Sherlock was afraid of what would happen. John's hair was styled differently. The now silver locks were swooped backwards and were much longer than Sherlock had ever seen them before. His face was older. There were more lines on his forehead and around his mouth, but not exactly smile lines. He had gained some weight, too. He was thicker around his middle, pudgier, less hard muscle. 

Sherlock watched carefully. John's daughter raced up to him and they embraced, happily. John took his daughter's backpack and swung it on one shoulder as they began walking towards the parking lot. John's daughter looked strikingly like him. She had his smile and his nose and as far as Sherlock could tell for an eight year old girl, she would have his height too. Sherlock couldn't really tell from afar but he swore she also had his bright, warm eyes, too. The only thing that wasn't from John was her long, dark brown hair. Sherlock watched the pair as they moved further and further from his sight, continuing on towards the car that was parked. They smiled at one another and John laughed at whatever story she was telling him. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to walk away. He couldn't bear to watch for much longer. He needed to do something. He needed to hear John's voice, to see his face up close. So, he decided he would reveal himself the very next day. 

*

The next day, Sherlock waited patiently outside John's home. He watched as John and his daughter left for school and while he waited for him to come back, he scanned the neighbourhood. It was a smallish town, with one high school and two public schools, a hospital (where John worked), a large park, two small churches, a hiking trail, an arena, a skate park, a daycare, an ice cream shop, a pizza parlour, a cafe, a few restaurants, two banks, two gas stations and a whole lot of residential buildings, including a small suburban neighborhood, which was where John and his daughter lived. 

John had lived there for around three years now. This home was the only one his daughter knew, the hustle and bustle of London and 221B unknown to her. Sherlock doubted John ever visited London, even though it was a mere twenty minutes away. John's home was a nice size. It had dark siding and a nicely sized front porch with a few potted plants and a bench on it. The front yard was well kept, the lawn cut short. The backyard was a nice size, with a wooden fence around the perimeter. There was a small swing set out back and some children's toys. Sherlock saw no sign of a family pet. 

After waiting for a 10 minutes, John finally arrived back at home, his daughter no longer with him. It was his day off. Sherlock watched as he disappeared through the door, waited a few minutes, then crossed the street towards the house. He slowly walked up the steps of the house and stood in front of the door. He sucked in a breath, his gloved fist poised in the air, ready to knock. He had never been more nervous for anything in his life. He had also never been more excited. Without thinking too much about it, Sherlock knocked. 

Sherlock heard the sound of John rustling around, his feet on the floor as he came towards the door. After a moment, the door opened. Up close, John looked almost the same as Sherlock remembered, only older and a lot tired. At first, he didn't move or do anything at all. He stared into Sherlock's eyes, his expression carefully neutral. Sherlock didn't know if he should say anything at all. 

Finally, John did something. He swallowed thickly and his eyes moved downward, staring at the ground, at their shoes. He rubbed a hand on his face, then looked back up, maybe thinking if he rubbed his eyes enough, Sherlock would disappear. He looked back up, not quite meeting the taller man's eyes. He cleared his throat. 

"What are you doing here?" His voice was gravelly and to Sherlock's ears it even sounded older as well. Sherlock didn't know what to say. "What are you doing here?" He repeats, his voice steadier than before. 

Sherlock holds his hands tightly together. "Let me explain."

"No," John started, holding up a hand. "There's nothing to explain. Go away."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He took a step closer and John took one back. He pushed the door between them. "Go away," he snarled, through gritted teeth. "I don't want to see you ever again."

John moved to fully close the door but Sherlock stepped forward and pushed it open with his hand. "John, please. I--I know this is crazy but let me explain. Please. I can explain."

John shook his head. "You aren't here," he said. "You're dead. You're not Sherlock, so leave."

"John," Sherlock pleaded. "Its me. I--I haven't been dead. I never died. I've been overseas, trying to get rid of Moriarty's web. I did this to protect you. I--if you had known I was alive, he could have killed you. I couldn't have that, you must understand. I swear to God, John. I swear."

John closed his eyes and rested his head against the door. "Its not you," he cried. "I won't believe it. Do you know--do you know how hard it was? I grieved you, I mourned you. Everyday I think to myself what I would do if you came back. I kept believing that one day you'll show up here and now here you are... It was so hard and--and now you're here...please just go away. I don't want to see you." 

He looked up into Sherlock's eyes. He was crying, tears ran down his face. Sherlock came closer. "John, just let me in. Hear me out. If you don't want to see me after this, then that's fine. But let me explain myself."

John closed his eyes, considering it. Then, miraculously he opened the door and stepped aside for Sherlock to come in. Sherlock stepped in and surveyed the house. It was a standard suburban home, only slightly smaller. The sitting room was to the left and the kitchen was to the right. There was a door at the back which lead to a bathroom and a flight of stairs which led to the bedrooms. The colour palette of it was neutral and there wasn't much decorating. Some kids drawings were displayed on the fridge and there were a few toys strewn about on the floor. On the kitchen counter, a small fish tank sat with a beta swimming around happily. There was also a plate with a sandwich sitting on it. 

"I was just going to eat lunch," John said. He sniffled and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Um, you can sit down." Sherlock moved further into the house and sat down stiffly on the sofa. John sat next to him. "Explain yourself, then."

Sherlock did. He told John about Moriarty's web. He told him about travelling around the world, solving crime. He explained how exactly he faked his own death and the reasons why. He decided not to tell John about being held captive, about being chained in a dark basement, about the scars on his back. At the end of it, John was nearly crying again. 

"Sherlock," he said. "I can't believe this. I don't want to. It can't really be you."

"It is me," Sherlock whispered. He snaked his fingers towards John and rested his fingertips lightly on John's knee. "It's me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk everything out. Things start to move in a good direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I know these are kind of short and I wanted this one to be longer but I felt like the ending was perfect. The chapters might get longer as it progresses. 
> 
> Also, I know I completely switched tenses in this chapter. I'm really bad with that but I'm going to try and stick with present tense for the rest of the story. Sorry if that's annoying. Present tense just seemed to fit the story better.

The next day, Sherlock and John meet up for a second time. Again, it's John's day off and they decide just to meet at his house again. At one o'clock exactly, Sherlock stands outside the house, knocking. John had told him to come at this time and Sherlock deduced the reason why. John's daughter needed to be picked up from school at two fifteen and that way, if things were going bad, John had an easy way to escape the conversation. 

After a few moments the door opens and John stands there. Sherlock picks up on his anxiousness right away. John rubs his sweaty hands on his thighs and motions for Sherlock to come in. 

"Hi," John greets, awkwardly. "You can take your shoes off. Let me take your coat and--and your gloves." 

Sherlock nods. He toes his shoes off. He stuffs his gloves in his jacket pocket, then slips it off and hands it to John who hangs it up next to his own. The sight of their coats hanging next to each other almost makes Sherlock stop in his tracks but he soldiers on. 

"I made tea. Lets sit down," John says, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. Sherlock follows him into the sitting room and they sit on the sofa together. They both take a sip of their tea, avoiding each other's eyes. Sherlock chances a look at John. The hand that's not holding the tea shakes badly. The tremor has returned and Sherlock can't deduce whether it came back after the fall or if it has just come back with his own arrival. 

Finally, John looks up and breaks the silence between them. "Where are you staying?" 

"A hotel in London," Sherlock answers simply. 

"You must be glad to be back in London," John says. "Though, I can't imagine you staying in a hotel. Must be real posh." 

"Its okay," Sherlock whispers. He doesn't really care much about the quality of the hotel. Most of his days are spent milling around this small town where John lives anyways or walking the streets of London seeing what has changed. 

"Why don't you just stay with your brother?" John asks. "Much better accommodations, I can imagine."

Sherlock huffs. "I spent a lot of time with Mycroft over those twelve years. I rather think I've had enough." He grimaces. Mycroft was almost always the one to come to Sherlock's rescue. He would save him from being held captive or tortured and would watch over him, personally. He gave him medical assistance and ensured he was okay. Sherlock thinks back to a particularly grim time when his brother held him as he cried. It isn't a fond memory. 

John almost chuckles at Sherlock's words. "I see. Um, does anyone else know you're back?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. Only you," he whispers. 

John's eyes move downward, away from Sherlock's. His hand shakes violently and he tightens it into a fist. "You should tell them. They deserve to know."

"I will," Sherlock assures, softly. "I've been...avoiding it. I don't want the public to know."

John meets his eyes again. "What? Why not?"

"I think...well, I think I'm rather finished with detective work," Sherlock admits. He grips his teacup with both hands. 

"Really? You can't be. That's your life."

"Yes," Sherlock nods. "It was my life but it led me to Moriarty and while it may have been the challenge I always wished for, I want to stay as far away from it as I can, now. It is not worth it." 

John sighs heavily. He turns away from the other man and stretches his legs onto the coffee table in front of him. "I can't believe its really you," he breathes. Sherlock thinks he might cry again, but no tears come and his voice stays steady. He only rests his head against his hand and stares straight ahead. "I thought you were dead," he states, solemnly. "I mean, I watched you die in front of me. I saw it. And now, twelve years later you're sitting on my sofa, drinking tea with me."

"John--"

"You know, I wasn't lying when I said I thought about this everyday. I really did. I imagined if you showed up on my doorstep. Maybe you would come to the hospital and surprise me or bump into me on the street. Maybe you'd pretend to be a cab driver and put on a disguise. I imagined it in so many ways, so many scenarios but I never really thought it would happen," John speaks quietly. "I hoped for it everyday. I wanted it to happen so badly. I'm not religious but, Sherlock, I prayed for it. Up until yesterday really. And now that you're really here, I--" he cuts himself off, sighing. He leans forward and puts his tea down on the table. "Now that you're really here, I don't know what to do." Finally, John turns to meet Sherlock's eyes again. "I don't know what to say."

Sherlock's expression turns soft. "You don't have to do anything, John," Sherlock tells him. "But if you'd let me, I'd like to become apart of your life again. I can certainly try."

John smiles a little. "Okay. I can do that. But, don't expect much. I have--I have responsibilities now. I can't go running after you whenever you want. It's going to be really hard for me. Please understand that."

"Of course," Sherlock says, relieved. "I just want you to give me a chance. There's no pressure."

It goes silent between them again for a moment. They gaze at each other and the corner of John's mouth turns up a little. He looks at Sherlock, almost fondly. "You look different," he says. 

Sherlock huffs out a weak laugh. "How? In a bad way?" He jokes. 

"You're much skinnier," John says, sadly. "We'll have to change that. You--you're tan...I didn't even know that was possible. Your hair is a lot shorter but...I can see white in it! You're going grey!"

Sherlock laughs. "I am not. You ARE grey," he shoots back and John chuckles a little, himself. It feels good. It feels easy. 

"Oh," John sighs, his eyes slipping shut. "I've missed this." 

 

*

 

Sherlock spends the next few days in London. He wanders around, going to Regent's Park and eating at the restaurants him and John used to eat at. Eventually, he decides to visit the others he left behind. First, he stops by Angelo's. The man faints of course but is happy to see him after he recovers. He fills Sherlock up with pasta and Sherlock let's him. Next, he pops in to see Lestrade. Lestrade is shocked and almost falls over but much to Sherlock's surprise he wraps his arms around him and squeezes him tightly. He sees Molly at the morgue who cries and hugs him, too. He visits Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. She tears up and hugs him but tells him that she always knew he was out there somewhere. Sherlock doesn't go into 221B. The memories are too painful. 

Mycroft comes over to visit him nearly everyday. He brings them lunch and they eat together in silence. They don't really have much to say. The times that they do talk, it's when Mycroft tries to mention John, tries to get Sherlock to talk about it. Of course, nothing ever comes of it. Mycroft sometimes tells him about his work or what's changing in London. Every time he comes over, he brings Sherlock more medication to treat the scars on his back and some pills to help him sleep at night. He even brings over a stack of cold cases and tells Sherlock that he has to at least look at them since he went all the way to Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. Of course, the cold cases stay in a pile on the coffee table, untouched. 

Finally, a week later Sherlock's mobile buzzes. He's sitting on the hotel bed, browsing through the channels on the TV and when his phone buzzes beside him, he immediately picks it up. It's a text from John. 

What are you up to tomorrow? -JW

Sherlock breaks out into a grin. John told him he would text him whenever he wanted to see him again. Sherlock expected it to be weeks before John ever contacted him. He typed a reply quickly. 

Nothing. Just going to walk around London again. -SH

Sherlock stared at his phone, excitedly awaiting a reply. It came faster than expected. 

Good. Maybe we can do something tomorrow. -JW

Okay. Like what? -SH 

You should come over. I'll make us lunch and I can show you around the town. -JW

What time? -SH

You can come at noon. -JW

I'll be there. -SH 

See you tomorrow :) -JW

Sherlock turns his phone off and smiles. Things are working out in his favour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things slowly start to work out and Sherlock plans for his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worked long and hard on this one. I hope you guys enjoy it! Chapters may come slower since I just started school but I won't abandon this!

The next day when Sherlock arrives at John's house, things already seem more comfortable between them. John makes them egg salad sandwiches and they sit at the small table to eat them. John tells Sherlock about the hospital he works at and some of the staff there. He tells him about the town itself and the neighbors he dislikes. The conversation is easy, if still a little tense. When they finish eating, Sherlock watches as John washes up the dishes. 

"You want to walk around a bit? I'll show you around the town, like I mentioned," John suggests when he's finished. 

"Sure," Sherlock agrees. 

The two put their shoes and coats on and set off into the town. John takes him through his neighbourhood, pointing out the houses of the neighbours he hates. Then they walk further into the town. John shows him all the little local shops downtown. There's a small movie theatre that Sherlock never noticed. John convinces Sherlock to stop for ice cream with him and they eat as they walk through the town. John shows him the cafe he does work at and the pizza place he orders from every Friday. They walk by the hospital, which Sherlock has seen before from watching John clock in and out of work sometimes. 

As they start to make the venture back home, Sherlock feels guilty. John has been showing him around the town all day and Sherlock already knows most of it. He stuffs his hands in his pocket. 

"John there's something I should tell you," he starts, unsure of himself. 

John's brow furrows. He's expecting something bad. "What?" 

"Well, you've been showing me around all day and you've done a good job of it but...," he stops, wondering if John will be mad or creeped out. "I've actually spent a fair bit of time around here. Before I knocked on your door um, I wandered around here. I was trying to decide whether or not to come up to you."

"So you've seen most of this already?" John asks. 

"Yeah, mostly. I hope that's okay," he mutters. 

John laughs. "Of course its okay, Sherlock!" he exclaims. "I mean, you could have told me before we went out, maybe we could have found something better to do but its fine. I'm not mad."

"Okay," Sherlock breathes. "I just wasn't sure whether to confront you or not. I guess I was afraid of your reaction. I spent a lot of time um, following you around town. Watching you go into work or--at the school." 

"Oh. That's okay, a bit creepy but I don't mind," he pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. "You saw me then, at the school?"

"Yes. I know about your daughter. Even if I didn't see you at the school, I could have easily deduced it when I stalked through your front door. Or by the way you carry yourself, the clothes you wear--"

"Hey! What's wrong with my clothes? Are you saying I dress like a dad?" 

"Well, I wouldn't say that...but there is a certain...essence about your clothes, you could say," Sherlock says, smirking. 

John laughs and bumps his shoulder against the other man's. "Thanks Sherlock. I appreciate that." 

Sherlock smiles. "So, your daughter then. She's eight?"

"Yes. Her name is Mae. Her mother um, she left, two days after she was born," John tells him, grimly. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says. He means it. "I'm sure you two are better off without her anyways."

"Yeah." John presses his lips together. "I don't like to think about it much. But...Sherlock if we're going to give this a try--you know being friends again--you're going to have to meet Mae sometime or another."

Sherlock grimaces. He's never been good with kids and he doesn't like most of them. But its John's child, she must have some of his good qualities. "I dont know...," he sighs. "I don't--I'm not good with kids."

"It's alright," John says softly, turning to look at Sherlock. "She'll like you. She's very easy to talk to. I want you to meet her. I want you to be apart of her life."

Something twists inside Sherlock. His stomach feels weak and his fingers twitch. "Thank you," he whispers. 

"So, when would you like to come over? Mae and I, we go to the park every Friday after school and order pizza for dinner," John tells him. "Come join us."

Sherlock gives John a soft expression. He smiles, slightly. "Okay," he says. "I'll be there."

 

*

 

So, two days later Sherlock is accompanying John on the ride to one of the local public schools. In the passenger seat, Sherlock's leg bounces up and down, anxiously. He tries to hide his nerves but John keeps glancing at him, a fond smile gracing his lips. 

"There's no need to be nervous," John tells him, trying to calm his nerves. 

Sherlock shoots him a glare. "I'm not."

John smiles even wider, glancing at him through the corner of his eyes. "I can tell you are. Your leg is shaking, you haven't spoken more than a few words to me this whole drive and you keep looking around really nervously. Plus, you even told me yourself that you're not great with kids." 

"Nice deduction, John," Sherlock snaps. "She's only a child, what is so scary about that?"

"You tell me," John chuckles. "Look, all I'm saying is that you don't need go be scared. She's very friendly and she loves meeting new people. Kids aren't as hard to talk to as you think. They're easily impressed."

"Thank you John, but I'm feeling fine," Sherlock sighs. "There's no need to say any of that."

John smiles. A few minutes later, they pull into the school's parking lot. "You can just wait outside of the car. I'll go and get her."

Sherlock stands, leaning against John's car. He watches as John walks around to the front of the school and waits for his daughter to come out. It only takes a minute or two before a flood of students rushes out the front doors. A second later, the same brown haired girl from two weeks ago runs into John's arms, a huge smiling gracing her lips. They hug and Sherlock watches as he bends down in front of her, likely explaining to her that she's about to meet one of her father's friends. John doesn't know what story he's going with for her. Hes obviously not going to explain to her that he faked his own death and put her father through years of pain. Sherlock watches the exchange between father and daughter. He thinks back to all the times he watched John picking his daughter up here in secrecy. Now he's somehow apart of it. The girl doesn't seem scared as her eyes drift over in Sherlock's direction. Then, the two start walking over to him. 

Sherlock's heart beats wildly. He IS nervous and he can't understand why. It's just a little girl and John's one at that. She is nothing to be afraid of in this world. The two come closer and closer until finally, they're standing in front of the detective. 

"Mae," John says. "This is my friend Sherlock."

The little girl raises the hand that's not clutching John's and waves. "Hello. It's nice to meet you."

The girl is friendly and Sherlock detects a bit of shyness behind her words. "Hi," Sherlock says. "Its nice to meet you, too."

There's and awkward moment where no one knows what to say next. John comes to the rescue. "Sherlock's gonna accompany us to the park today and he's going to have pizza with us later. Sound good?"

"Yeah. That's cool," Mae nods. 

"Alright. Let's get going, then," John says. Mae eyes Sherlock, warily before opening the car door and hopping in the back. John's eyes flick to his for a moment, as if checking to see that he's okay. Then he gets in the car too. Sherlock slides into his place in the passenger seat. When everyone is buckled up, they drive off. 

At first, the car is quiet. Sherlock knows this isn't usually how car rides go with the pair. Mae would be telling John all about her day, going on about third grade drama. Sherlock's presence seems to be putting a dent in that. He glances back at the girl through the rear view mirror. She's looking out the window, her hands curled in her lap. Then, she turns her head and meets Sherlock's eyes through the mirror. He looks away and turns to John instead. He's focused on driving, a cool expression on his face. He glances at Sherlock and smiles. Sherlock feels warm inside. 

"Mae," John pipes up. "Did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah," the girl says from the back. "Charlie got sent to the hall today."

"Oh yeah? What did he do?"

"Dad," Mae groans. "Charlie is a girl. Remember, I went to the waterpark with her in the summer?"

John eyes Sherlock through the corner of his eyes, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Oh yeah, sorry. What did she do? Maybe letting you hang out with her was a mistake if she's some kind of trouble maker."

"It wasn't her fault!" the girl declares. "She didn't do her homework for the week and Ms. Teller got really mad. Charlie tried to explain to her that she was visiting family all week but Ms. Teller didn't listen and sent her to the hall."

"Oh," John says. "That doesn't seem fair. What happened?"

"Oh, well Charlie was crying and Ms. Teller finally listened and said sorry," Mae explains, shrugging. 

"That's good. Did you finish your homework?"

"Yes. I always do, Dad." Sherlock doesn't have to look to be able to tell that the girl rolled her eyes. He chuckles. 

John looks at him, smiling. "Just checking." 

A few minutes later, they arrive at the park. Mae runs off to go on the swings and Sherlock and John find a bench to sit at and watch her. 

"What do you think of her?" John asks, almost seeking out Sherlock's approval. 

"I don't know. She seems like a very...well rounded girl."

John laughs. "I know this is weird but...she's really great. She's a bit shy, I think. Maybe...just try and talk to her. Show her you're not a threat," he suggests. 

"Okay," Sherlock agrees. He's not exactly sure how to do that but he will try his best. "She looks like you," Sherlock can't help but comment. 

John beams. "You think so? Everyone always comments on her beautiful brown hair which she got from her mother but never that she looks like me."

"Oh she does. She has your face, exactly. Its uncanny."

"Thanks," John says, even though it's not exactly a compliment. 

"So what did you tell her? Surely you didn't tell her that I faked my own death." Sherlock means for it to be a lighthearted joke but he sees John grimace. 

"I told her you were an old friend from London," he says. "I don't think she has any questions for now."

"That's good. Um, I went to see everyone."

"Really?" John asks, excitedly. "What did they do?"

"Well," Sherlock clears his throat. "They were all shocked. I got a lot of hugs," he grimaces and John laughs. "Even Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson told me she knew all along."

"That's weird. God, she must be getting older," John says. "I haven't seen them in years."

"Really? Not even a visit?"

"Well...the last time I saw Lestrade or Molly was maybe five years ago. I visited Mrs. Hudson three years ago. Time just...got away from me , I guess," he admits, guiltily. "How do they look?"

"Lestrade is still grey. He's almost as fat as Mycroft," Sherlock tells him, wrinkling his nose. John lets out a belly laugh and Sherlock smiles at the sound. "Molly looks older but still...like Molly," he frowns. "Mrs. Hudson is the same but she goes out less. Getting tired but nothing to worry about. We should go see them."

"Oh I dont know, Sherlock. I haven't seen them in years," John groans, shaking his head. 

"John, that's ridiculous. I was away for twelve years and I could do it. You can, too. You know they asked me about you. They were all worried about you," Sherlock says, frowning. "They told me you just left one day without a word. They said you--you weren't well, that you lost weight and--"

"Sherlock," John snaps. He looks away. "It's fine. I don't want to talk about that."

"I'm only looking out for you."

John scoffs. "Oh, right."

Sherlock's heart pangs and John's word sting. He looks out across the park where Mae has moved onto the play structure. She laughs, going down the slide and races back up to do it again. This is John's daughter. This is his life. Maybe coming here was a bad idea...

"Listen," John starts. "I'm sorry for...snapping at you. Its just hard for me...those first years were really scary. I didn't know how to cope. I wasn't taking care of myself."

"It's my fault," Sherlock says, meeting John's eyes. "I should have had Mycroft check up on you but...I was scared. I didn't want to face what had happened to you. I was afraid that...I dont know...that maybe you weren't even around anymore." He looks away, feeling emotions rush over him. 

"God, Sherlock," John sniffs. "This really is terrible. We--we shouldn't even be talking about this now. This is supposed to be a fun day. We're both here now and let's just focus on that, okay?"

Sherlock nods. "Okay." John smiles at him. It's less real than the others they've shared that day and Sherlock can see the emotion behind it but he returns it anyways. 

The rest of the day goes well. Mae spends some more time at the park before they leave. They stop to pick up a pizza, then arrive home--at least at John's home. Dinner goes great. The two adults sit on the sofa and Mae lounges on the floor in front of them, watching TV. The conversation flows well. Mae and Sherlock don't pass a lot of words between them but its okay. Neither of them feel the need to and Mae keeps her eyes glued to the screen. After pizza they have ice cream. This is when Mae finally speaks up. 

She twists her body around and looks at the two men sitting on the sofa. "How did you guys meet?" 

"Well after I came home from the military, I needed a place to stay. Sherlock and I had a mutual friend who introduced us," John explains. "Sherlock was looking for a flatmate and so I moved in with him."

Mae regards them with a confused look. "I don't get it. You lived together...but why are you friends?"

"Ah...well we just got along really well, I guess," John says. "Stayed friends."

"Your father and I went on many adventures together," Sherlock chimes in. 

Mae turns to him. "Like what? What kind of adventures?"

"We went after criminals," Sherlock says. 

Mae's eyes go wide. "Like police work?"

"No. I used to be a detective." 

"A detective!" Mae declares. "Dad, you never told me about that!"

John chuckles and shakes his head. "I didn't know you cared so much about detectives."

"Tell me more!" she sends Sherlock. "Did you fight bad guys?"

"I guess so. We chased down a few criminals in our day. Caught a few thieves, murderers," Sherlock tells her. 

"Murderers," Mae whispers, hanging on the word. "Wow. You are so cool, Sherlock."

"Hey," John says, pointing a finger at her. "I was there too. I'm cool, too."

Mae rolls her eyes. "I guess." 

John laughs. Sherlock looks at him and they share a smile. John turning towards him and resting his head in his hand. The day was a success. 

 

* 

 

A week later, Sherlock is over at John's again. They're sitting on the sofa together while Mae kneels on the floor by the coffee table, drawing. John has brought a bottle of wine from the kitchen and they're each having a glass. 

"So, are you still staying in a hotel?" John asks, somewhat out of the blue. 

"Yeah. Why?"

John clears his throat. "Well that's a long drive all the way here every week. Don't you think?"

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. He doesn't know where John is going with this. "Its only twenty minutes, John."

"I know but--" John looks down at his hands, then back at Sherlock. "Well don't you think you should be a little closer to us? Then we can see you everyday."

"John, what are you asking me?"

John shakes his head. "I'm not--I'm not asking what you think. But there's--there's a B&B near the edge of town. Maybe you can stay there? I know it's probably not as nice as your place now but...I don't know," he trails off, unsure of himself. 

"I can check it out. I, too would like to be closer. Being in London is dreadfully boring, I have to say," Sherlock admits. "Its nice out here in the country."

"Really?" John beams. "I didn't think I'd ever hear you say that. You know, you dont have to leave London. I know how much you love it and cities in general."

"I've had enough of London. I'll still go there often but...I think being there is too much," Sherlock says. "It will be nice to have a change of scenery."

"That's very unlike you," John says. "You must be bored. You're really not going back into detective work?"

"No. I can't. It's too much. Besides, a twelve year long crime was enough for me," Sherlock says. 

"So," John starts, pouring himself a second glass of wine. "What are you going to do next? What's your next project?"

"Actually, it goes perfectly if I come live out here," Sherlock says, smiling. John leans over and refills his glass too. "I've been looking into apiary."

"Apiary? You mean like beekeeping?" John asks, surprised. 

Sherlock nods, proudly. "I can buy a large property even further into the country and get started. I've always been interested in it."

"Hm. I'd never expected that." John chuckles. "So you're going to come live out here? Really?"

"Well," Sherlock chastises. "Don't get too excited. I'm going to live at that B&B you mentioned. Then, I suppose I'll start looking for a place to live, for real."

"That's good," John says, trying desperately to hide his smile. "There's a lot of farm land a few minutes out of town. You should check it out."

Sherlock nods. From down on the floor, Mae looks up. "You're a farmer?" 

"No but I might buy some farm land so I can have bees," Sherlock explains. 

"Bees!" Mae exclaims. "You're a beekeeper? I thought you were a detective."

"I was," he says softly. "I'm giving it up, though. I'm going to give beekeeping a try. See if I'm any good at it."

"Can I come visit your bees?"

"Of course."

"Will you make honey from them?" Mae asks, curiously. 

"I'm not sure. I suppose so."

"That's cool," Mae decides, turning back to her drawing. 

John and Sherlock exchange a smile. The rest of the night drifts by slowly. The two men sip on their wine and Mae keeps to herself, watching cartoons or drawing. Eventually, it's time for her to go to bed. 

John stands up, his shoulders popping. He sets his glass down on the coffee table. They've nearly finished the bottle. "Alright, Mae it's time for bed."

Mae looks up and frowns. "I'm not tired," she lies. "I want to stay up with you guys."

"That's nice but you're going to be really tired tomorrow if you don't go to bed now," John tells her. 

"But its Friday," Mae sighs, then tries to stifle a yawn. 

"Come on," John laughs. Mae stands up. "Say goodnight to Sherlock."

"Goodnight Sherlock," the girl says, waving. 

"Goodnight," Sherlock replies. He watches as John and his daughter retreat up the stairs. He sits for a moment in silence, staring at the empty wine glasses. He wonders briefly if he should go. It's getting late. John wouldn't appreciate it if he stayed all night. He listens to the sound of John moving around upstairs. His hears the creak as he sits on Mae's bed, probably reading her a bedtime story. Eventually, he hears John's footsteps as he comes down the stairs. 

"She's asleep," John announces as he comes into the room. He plucks the wine glasses and wine bottle from the coffee table and deposits them in the kitchen. Then he comes back into the room and stands before Sherlock with his hands on his hips. "That was good wine."

Sherlock hums in response. His head feels slightly airy and his muscles feel relaxed. 

"Did you like it?" John asks. 

"Yes," Sherlock says, his voice a little hoarse. They stare each other down for a moment, not saying anything. Then, Sherlock decides its time to go. He moves to stand up. "I'd better get going."

"Woah, woah, woah," John says. He moves forward and puts his hands out to stop Sherlock. "You're not driving home. We've both been drinking."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'll take a cab."

"All the way to London, in the middle of the night? No. It'll cost a fortune," John says. 

"Well what do you propose I do?" Sherlock stands up and faces John. 

John falters, looking down at his shoes. "Um...You could stay here?" 

Sherlock's eyes widen. John can't be serious. "What?" 

"Well...why not?" John shrugs, meeting Sherlock's eyes again. 

"Um...really? Where--what?" Sherlock stutters. He flushes, embarrassed. 

"You can--you can sleep on the couch here, if that's okay...I don't think--" he clears his throat, awkwardly. This conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him. "Is that okay? I have some spare blankets and a pillow."

"That's alright. Are you sure?" Sherlock asks, unsure. This doesn't seem like John at all. 

"Of course!" John says, cheerily. He smiles at Sherlock. "Though I don't think you'll want to sleep in your nice trousers and everything. I may have some PJs you can borrow. Hold on. Let me go get everything. Stay here."

With that, John scurries up the stairs, leaving Sherlock shocked. This wasn't in his plans for today. He has to admit it sounds a lot nicer than sleeping in the hotel back in London. Ever since he came back, he has been having severe nightmares and the eerily quiet, too dark hotel doesn't help. He mostly spends his nights lying awake, trying to deduce the other patrons in the hotel or trying to figure out who stayed there before him. Sometimes he'll take his pack of cigarettes and wander around the city, taking in how different it looks at night when no one else is around. Now, though, he's going to be sleeping in John's small family home. John and his daughter will also be sleeping upstairs, in the same house as him. It's a strange feeling. 

After a few minutes, John reappears holding two big blankets, a pillow and a pair of pajamas. He dumps them all onto the sofa and points at the clothes. "Those are for you," he says, sheepishly. "I'm not sure if they'll fit--after all, you're much taller than me--but I'm sure it'll work."

Sherlock picks the clothes up. It's a pair of John's pajama bottoms. They're red plaid and Sherlock remembers a time when John used to wear these. The shirt is one of John's army green t shirts with the letters 'RAMC' on the front. They smell of John even from where Sherlock holds them. 

"Thank you," Sherlock says. 

"You can go change. The bathroom's just there," John tells him, pointing behind him to a closed door. "I hope its comfortable. If you need anything...just holler." Its awkward for a moment between them. John isn't sure if he should say anything more and Sherlock sways in his spot. "Well...goodnight. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, John."

With that, John turns and goes up the stairs into his own bedroom for the night. Sherlock doesn't move for a moment. Then, he snaps into motion and goes into the bathroom to change. When he puts the clothes on, they smell of John even stronger than before. It's the smell of his cologne and the shampoo he uses and it's something else entirely that Sherlock can't put his finger on. The bottoms are a bit short on him but they're comfortable and soft. The shirt fits very well, much to his surprise. He looks at himself in the mirror and can't help but smile a little at the sight of him in John's attire. 

When Sherlock comes back into the sitting room, he sets the pillow at the head of the sofa and lies down, the blankets pulled up to his chin. The house is quiet. A steak of moonlight comes through the front window and lands on the floor next to the sofa. He can't hear a thing outside, only the constant chirping of crickets. There's a clock somewhere in the room that he can hear loudly too. Its eery and unnerving but he tries to focus on the fact that there are two sleeping bodies on the floor above him. John is here in the same house. The hotel in London was always loud. Even at night, when no one was around it still seemed to be buzzing with life. Car doors opening and closing in the distance, people arguing occasionally in the alley below his window, hotel neighbours listening to the TV too loud. But at John's house everything was calm. There were no noises for Sherlock to jump at every five seconds. He hadn't heard a night so peaceful since he was a boy in the home he grew up on. It was calming and creepy all at once. 

Sherlock wonders if he could even fall asleep. It wasn't likely. Even with the quiet atmosphere and the comfort of his friend in the same building, he was still an insomniac, nonetheless. He didn't have sleeping pills with him either so he figured he would be lying on the sofa until sunrise. It wasn't a bad thing. Lying in John's home, listening to the sounds of nature and watching the moonlight crawl across the room was a nice change to hearing people yell and dogs bark or walking around London in the rain at midnight. The night would go by quickly if he wanted it to. 

He had a lot to think about anyways. His relationship with John which was in a very awkward place at the moment. Were they friends again? Sherlock couldn't tell. But John did offer him to stay overnight and they had been spending a lot of time together as of late. John was even happy to have his daughter around Sherlock. That had to count for something. They certainly weren't anywhere close to where they had been before the fall. Before that, they were a lot younger and quick on their feet. They had adrenaline coursing through their veins and jumped at any chance of an adventure. They could talk about mostly anything. John was able to get Sherlock to laugh and he was the only person that Sherlock had ever felt truly comfortable around. They were far from that now but every time they hung out, Sherlock felt them getting closer and closer. He hopes they could heal with time. 

He could also think about his future. About staying at the B&B in John's town. About eventually buying land and starting his beekeeping career. If it was even going to be a career. Mae had mentioned selling honey. Sure, that could help him pick up some extra cash but Sherlock doesn't really care about the money. He has enough to live comfortably and he mostly just wants to start it so he has something to do. Something to distract him from detective work. It wouldn't be hard. He had always been interested in bees as a child and now is his chance to put it into action. 

Sherlock lies awake for some time, hours even. But with the sound of the crickets, the moonlight and the presence of John upstairs, Sherlock eventually falls asleep. It's the first time he's naturally fallen asleep without using a sleeping pill. He falls into a deep sleep and doesn't dream for a few hours. But eventually the nightmare starts. 

It begins as nothing too scary. At first, it's just the image of Sherlock walking through a desert by himself. It's calm. The sun lies high in the sky which is crystal clear blue. He walks for a while until a jeep rolls up to him. The people inside speak a foreign language and shout at Sherlock. When he asks what they're saying, they yell John Watson's full name. Sherlock jumps in. From there, the men in the jeep take him to a scary looking building. Its dark and when they get inside, they lead him through dank hallways. When they finally get to their destination, Sherlock is pushed inside. He's in a jail cell and the men lock it behind him, closing him in. In the jail cell with him, is John. He's curled up in a corner, only wearing pants. His hair has clumps missing and his face is bruised and bloody, as if he's been beaten. He's dirty and he has wounds all over his body, some healed over but some open and oozing blood. Sherlock rushes over and tries to help. John lifts his head and stares at him. 

In the dream, Sherlock frantically brushes his hands on John's body. "John, what happened? Let me help you!"

John stares into his eyes, a confused expression falling over his face. With a weak and raspy voice he says, "Who are you?"

When Sherlock jolts awake, the sun is just coming up. The clock reads five thirty six in the morning. He's sweating and he has kicked the blankets off. His voice feels sore, as if he's been screaming. He hopes nobody heard him. He sits up and looks around the room. He feels embarrassed and doesn't want to face John in the morning. He's happy that he managed to fall asleep. It's an improvement and although he had a nightmare, it's something to be proud of. He attributes it to the sore lack of sleep and tells himself it has nothing to do with John's presence. 

Eventually, Sherlock decides to get a glass of water to help soothe his throat. Just so he stand up, a voice rings out through the room. 

"Are you okay?" Its Mae. Her voice is tiny and sleepy at this hour. Sherlock turns around to find her standing at the foot of the stairs, a fuzzy robe wrapped around her and her brown hair flying in all directions. He freezes. She heard him screaming. 

"I'm fine, Mae," he tells her, tersely. "Go back to sleep, it's much to early."

She shrugs and comes closer to him. "It doesn't matter. I usually get up at six to watch cartoons on Saturdays, anyways. Besides, you're up too."

"Yes well, I was only getting a glass of water, then going back to sleep," he says, waving a hand about. 

"I heard you screaming," Mae says, pointedly. She walks closer to him and stands in front of him. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock rubs a hands over his face. "I'm fine."

Mae knows better, though. "Why were you screaming? Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, through gritted teeth. "I was having a nightmare."

"Was it scary?" She asks. Sherlock really doesn't want to talk about it but she's just a little girl and he can't bear to break down in front of her or be rude to her. 

"Yes," he answers. "It was very scary."

Mae's face fast, sadly. "That's terrible. I hate nightmares. I have ones about drowning or sometimes...I have ones about other kids bullying me," she admits, almost shyly. "What was yours about?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock lies. He remembers every detail. Its burned into his memory. 

"Oh," she shrugs, turning away to walk into the kitchen. "You were yelling my dad's name."

Sherlock flushes with embarrassment and shame. He watched Mae walk into the kitchen and fill up two glasses of water. She comes back and hands one to him. He thanks her and sits on the sofa again. She sits beside him. They are both silent for a while, sipping their water. Finally, Mae breaks the silence. She reaches over to the side table to grab the remote. 

"Let's watch cartoons." 

She flicks the TV on and clicks until she lands on the cartoon channel. A rerun of Looney Tunes is on. It's the episode where Marc Anthony makes friends with the little kitten. They watch together, occasionally, Mae laughs at the cartoon. Sherlock watches as the dog and the kitten become best friends, the small black and white kitten sleeping on the dog's back. He still feels incredibly embarrassed about his dream. He Hope's John didn't hear his screaming either. He dreams about John occasionally. Mostly, he dreams about being tortured and beaten. He dreams about actually dying. The dreams about John are by far the worst though and this time was no exception. 

Eventually, Mae grows tired. She yawns and falls asleep, her head resting comfortably against Sherlock. He stares at her, slumped against his body. She smuggles against him. Sherlock enjoys the feeling of it. He is happy that she'a comfortable around him and it gives him some closure in his presence in John's life. 

Not wanting to fall asleep again, Sherlock stays awake to watch the rest of the cartoon. He watches as Marc Anthony the dog thinks his kitten has been baked into a cookie. He watches as he curls up and sobs, mourning the loss of his best friend. Sherlock finds himself relating to it and growing sad. He knows what this feels like, to lose your friend, to be without them. He keeps watching and sees the story resolve. The kitten isn't really dead or baked into a cookie, the kitten has been alive this whole time. As he watches the cartoon dog pour put his emotions, Sherlock grows even more emotional as something hits him: this is how John felt too when Sherlock left. He, too mourned the loss of his friend. On screen, Marc Anthony jumps with joy when he finds out the kitten is still alive. The kitten curls up on his back and they are just the same as they always have been. 

Later, after the sun has fully risen, John pads down the stairs and finds Sherlock and Mae on the sofa. A soft expression comes over his face as he greets him with a quiet good morning. John makes breakfast for everyone and all three of them eat together, sharing conversation. The sun drifts through the windows and Sherlock watches as the neighbours begin to wake up as well. A paper boy delivers their paper and birds begin to sing. Sherlock takes in the environment before him. John sitting across from him, still wearing his pajamas, his hair sticking up at the back and a lazy smile just for him. His eight year old daughter directly to his right, rubbing sleep from her eyes and slowly eating her toast, her face a carbon copy of her father's. Sherlock feels at peace.


End file.
